


Dirty Laundry

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band)
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1299001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The working file was literally called "stress free butts.docx."  That's all it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Laundry

"It's too early for this," George warns when Harry turns the light on. He doesn't know what Harry's up to, what _this_ is going to be, exactly, but he does know that it's definitely too early for it.

"It's half-eleven." Harry snorts and shakes his hair out of his eyes before flumping back onto the warm mattress beside George.

"Like I said," replies George, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and not looking to move, "it's too early for this."

Harry nuzzles against George's shoulder, where the skin is smooth and -- in rare form, on George -- not ticklish. "You don't even know what 'this' is."

"I know it's too early for it," George chastises. "Honestly, the sun's barely come up. It's the weekend. It's too early for everything."

"The sun is nearly at high noon," Harry says. He's a bit agog. "Have you never been on a boat? Or outdoors? Or even looked out a window?"

"No," George says. "I spent my pasty youth on Mugglenet."

"What?" asks Harry, the savage.

George falls back against the pillows. His hair fans out like... well, like a fan. "Never mind. Squib."

"You are," Harry replies in an indignant mumble, despite clearly having no idea what George is talking about.

George opens one drowsy eye and squints at Harry. "Did you wake me up to insult my heritage or was there a reason?"

Harry visibly perks up, which is always worrisome. "There _is_ a reason."

"Good." George closes his eyes again. "Tell me in half an hour."

"Noooo," Harry whines, pulling the covers down until George's face is visible. "Now."

"I'm not getting up for nothing," George says. "Honestly. I'm very keen to stay in this bed with you, and so if you just saw an interesting rock on your jog again, I'm not going out to look at it. Especially if it's two kilometres away like the last one."

"I've got good news for you, then." Harry's gone a little frowny around the corners of his mouth, like he always does when George insults his rock friend. "You don't have to get out of the bed."

George's eyebrows shoot up.

"I'm listening," he says, narrowing his eyes at Harry above the comforter.

"I'm talking," Harry parrots back.

"Give me a good reason to wake up," George demands. "Seduce me with your proposal."

Harry sighs heavily. "Well, basically, seducing you was my proposal, but you've made it difficult. I should just go bring you a rock."

"You're doing a pretty poor job of seduction," George critiques. "Might want to try harder."

Harry pulls a face that is not seductive at all, and really, it's a good thing that George likes all of Harry's faces.

He sighs. "Well, come here, then," he says, squirming his arms out of his blanket package. "Do me, I guess."

Harry covers his face with both hands and shakes his head. "No, that's terrible. I'll try again later."

And he actually gets out of bed.

"Bring me breakfast, then!" George calls, a little despondent.

"It's lunchtime!"

"Bring me breakfast!" George insists, louder, as Harry is almost to the stairs from the sound of it.

He does, and it's lovely, because Harry is lovely and also because he arranges all breakfast plates like smiley faces, but he does not immediately attempt to seduce George again. It's disappointing enough that George leaves the banana for last and turns it into a frowny face.

"Turn that frown upside down," Harry says to him, and he reaches over to turn the banana upside down himself. "What're you sad about?"

"You still haven't seduced me." George pushes away his breakfast tray. "I'm naked and everything."

"You're naked a lot, to be fair," Harry points out. "If that was a requirement for seduction, we'd never get anything done."

After finishing the banana in pensive thought, George asks, " _Do_ we get things done?"

"I made breakfast. I jogged." Harry pauses. "You haven't really done anything today,” he says apologetically. “But I still like you."

"I'm glad. Do me."

"Patience," says Harry in the tone of voice he thinks is wise but really isn't. "When the time is right."

"Are you an astrologist now?" George manages to get up as well when Harry leaves the bed this time, and even though George's knees creak a little from being supine so long, he manages to hop up onto Harry's back easily enough. "Does Aquarius have to be ascending in the House of Uranus to get you to do me?"

"No, I couldn't be ascending in my anus, that doesn't make sense," Harry says, and promptly cracks up.

"Your dick's probably big enough," George mutters. "Sure you won't do me? Not even a little bit?"

"Not yet," Harry says. He edges down the stairs with George still clinging to his back like a marsupial.

"When, then?" asks George. "You've woken me up anyway. Seems useless if you won't even do me a little."

"I have a plan," Harry says.

George has a peculiar falling sensation, and it isn't the step Harry's missed on the stairs.

"A plan?" he says, with the hope that all the dread he's feeling is obvious in his tone. "You have a plan?"

The first time Harry had a plan involving George, they ended up in Scotland. And Scotland is lovely, but it is a very long way to go just to get someone you live with to put his dick in your arse.

"We're not going to Scotland," Harry assures, which is actually not very reassuring when he follows it up with, "Or Spain."

What's the next country that begins with S?

"Are we going to Switzerland?"

"No," Harry says, laughing under his breath.

"Sweden?"

"No, but I think you'd like Sweden," Harry admits.

"I liked Scotland," says George. "That doesn't mean I want to go there without any warning."

"Well, we'd have to fly to Sweden," Harry says. "I'd warn you at Heathrow."

"Good to know." George gives him a grateful nibble on the shoulder.

Harry hums happily and hitches George more securely onto his back.

"So your plan doesn't involve flying anywhere, then?" George asks. "Because I'll be honest, not really feeling up to flying."

Harry carries George through the kitchen and into the living room, which is piled with their balled-up laundry straight out of the dryer. "No flying today. Maybe next week."

"I suppose at least I'll have some warning," George mumbles as Harry plops him down onto the sofa, "if you must."

The beatific smile on Harry's face is enough convincing to make George vow to look up some Swedish phrases online tomorrow.

"What _is_ your plan, then?" George asks, draping himself across the arm of the couch. "If it doesn't involve whisking me off to another country, is it even a plan at all?"

"It was a plan," Harry says dramatically, "To get you in here. Start folding."

"What?" George asks, deliberately making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. "No. No, anything but folding."

Harry just lobs a shirt at him. "You're only naked because you're out of clothes! It's time."

"Remember how I told you that it's too early for this?" George grumbles. "It's too early for this."

Harry just smirks and -- also naked; the hypocrite -- sits delicately on the floor to start folding pants.

"Isn't it something like an oxymoron to be not wearing pants while you fold pants?" George muses.

"If we didn't have so many pants to fold, I'd be able to wear some." Harry is too sensible for this hour. On a _Saturday_.

"It's Saturday," George whines.

"It's laundry day," Harry replies daintily. "You can either help me fold the laundry or get out of my house."

George sits petulantly on a pile of Harry's plaids. "It's my house, too. I paid for that corner, over there."

Harry sighs, giving George the unfair sparkly eyes. "Please help me fold laundry?" he tries.

George harrumphs, but picks up one of Harry's shirts. There's a rip in the pocket, and George sticks his fingers through it to wave at Harry in a little white flag of apology.

"Thank you," Harry says with one of his big dimply smiles. Harry is far too many adjectives all at once.

Once George feels more awake, it's a quietly pleasant way to spend a morning (even a morning that's really an afternoon). All of their laundry smells like Harry, as far as George is concerned.

"See? Is this really so bad?" Harry asks, grinning at George. "It's not as bad as you thought it would be, be honest."

George shrugs one shoulder. "It's alright. But it's sad to think you're so concerned about having clothes to put on when we have the weekend ahead of us."

"And then the week, after it," Harry reasons. "Better to get it done now than to have to do it later."

George throws an unrolled sock at Harry's reasonable face. "That wasn't the part you were supposed to notice."

Harry just smiles at him. "I know."

George collapses forward onto the snaky tangle of skinny jeans. "You're torturing me."

"Hey," protests Harry mildly. "Those are clean. Don't get your bum germs on them."

"My bum germs'll... be on you," George retorts. It's not a good one.

"Your bum germs are on me _all the time_ ," Harry laments.

George rests his chin on a ball of socks. The socks have ducks on them, so they're probably his. "Then they can be on your clothes, too. No problem."

"That's not how clean works." Harry points another ball of socks threateningly at George.

George rolls over and rubs his perfectly clean bum on the jeans.

"Menace!" Harry cries. "How dare you! Get your bum germs off my jeans!"

And then he tackles George.

George squeaks and gloms all of his limbs around Harry.

"Off, off, off," Harry chides, flipping them over so that his own _apparently germ-free_ bum is against the jeans.

George nuzzles into Harry's neck. "No, I like where I am."

Harry snuggle back against George before gasping and jerking away. "Was this your plan?" he asks suspiciously. "Did you just trap me with a plan inside my own plan?"

"I incepted you," George confirms.

Harry is looking up at him with a sort of awe. "You, my dear, are an evil, evil genius."

George grins brightly. "I know! Now do me."

"But the laundry," Harry says. It's feeble at best.

George kisses the side of Harry's neck in just the right place, so gently that he can feel Harry shiver. "What laundry?"

"Seductive evil genius," Harry mutters, dropping his forehead to George's shoulder.

George keeps kissing his way down Harry's neck, but he does preen a little.

Harry's hand is warm and big where it settles on George's hip, his thumb rubbing along the ridge of George's hipbone.

He's stiffening up where his cock is pressed against George, and George has to lay off the kisses for a minute to bite his lower lip in triumph.

Harry seems to have forgotten all about the laundry in his quest to touch as much of George as he possibly can, and it's all in accordance with George's plan.

Harry must not even notice the neat pile of George's jumpers behind them, because it goes toppling over when he lays George out on the floor.

George giggles when Harry's hair tickles the sensitive skin of his underarms, his mouth pressing kisses to George's ribs, his fingers tracing patterns on George's bare thigh.

He threads his own fingers through Harry's soft hair and cants his hips.

The noise that provokes from Harry's throat is wonderful, and George yearns to make it happen again.

Harry's eyes have gone dark when he looks up at George from near his hips. "You drive me mad, you know."

George smiles at him, all soft edges and kitten teeth. "I know," he replies. "The feeling's mutual."

Harry groans softly and drags his teeth over the V of George's inguinal muscle.

It's sharp, but not so sharp that the sting hurts. It's just a twinge, a reminder of where Harry is and what he's going to do.

George's thighs fall open easily, his head dropping back against the floor. It's soft, because of the jumpers.

He does his best to keep the sneaky smile off his face. It's hard when he also wants to smile for other reasons.

Even though he's expecting it, it's still a surprise when Harry's tongue licks lightly over the tip of George's cock.

His eyes meet Harry's when he looks down, and Harry keeps looking back at him as he lowers his mouth around George, warm, light, wet suction.

George whimpers.

Every time he and Harry have sex, it's an experience. Mindblowing, mindboggling, mindbending. Harry knows just how to touch him or kiss him or fuck him in all the right ways.

Harry's long fingers rub over George's thighs, massaging gently, as he sucks, his tongue pressing just right over the heavy veins.

George feels like purring. He settles for a quiet hum of appreciation, pushing Harry's hair back off his head.

Just at the moment that the head of George's cock starts to feel the squeeze of Harry's throat, Harry opens George's thighs properly and settles them over his shoulders.

George squeaks. He can't help it.

Harry has to pull back to laugh lest he die choking on cock, which would be a shame.

George doesn't know what he'd tell Harry's mother. Actually, she'd probably find the real story of Harry's death infinitely amusing.

That makes him start laughing, too, spit-shiny pink dick bobbing in front of him, which only makes the both of them laugh harder.

"Stop laughing," Harry says mid-laugh. "I can't suck you off when you're laughing."

"Stop making me laugh!" George holds out his arms and Harry flumps into them, their bellies pressed together.

"Okay," Harry murmurs, his mouth catching George's, soft lips and delicate touches to the side of George's neck.

This happens more often than it doesn't, and still, people get sucked off. Harry and George more than most, even. It just feels so good to laugh, and when sex already feels good, it's even better.

"Nice," George mumbles against Harry's lips. Harry already knows it's nice, but still, it's polite to say so.

"Good." Harry lowers his hips down so that their cocks can slide together, all skin and warmth and slick.

"More kissing," George insists, craning to meet Harry's lips again.

He gets what he wants, kissing and slow teasing thrusts all at once.

It's easy, practiced, this rhythm, one they've done again and again. It's a melody their bodies know well.

But instead of a little tune, it's always a symphony concerto that builds differently with the nuance of the director, rising and rising until the crescendo could make the audience stand and cheer.

George certainly stands and cheers every time. Metaphorically. Mostly. And maybe, once, literally.

Once or twice, but Harry wasn't there the first time, so if anyone were to ask, he'd say once.

"Yeah?" Harry asks, breathless as he aligns their hips again and moves in a slow, smooth grind against George. "S'good?"

George nods, his blunt fingernails catching Harry's smooth back. He likes that it's free of tattoos -- it means the only marks ever there are from him, from this.

He thinks Harry secretly likes that, too, and maybe that's why he still hasn't got any tattoos there.

George's thighs tuck back up around Harry's hips, ankles crossed at the small of Harry's back to keep them as close together as can be.

It makes the angle that much better, heat and friction between them. George can feel the damp of sweat gathering along his shoulders and the small of his back.

The pile of jumpers beneath him shifts with every movement, too, and the cold shocking glimpses of wooden floor kissing his back make him jump.

In some ways, though, that just adds to it, makes it all that much more unpredictable and amazing. Just when he's getting used to the pattern of movement, it changes, and he loves not being able to tell when or how it's going to happen.

Harry is working a lovebite into the side of George's neck, his lips soft but the pressure constant and pulling.

It's a maelstrom of sensation, building and building and building until George feels like he's going to either come or explode into bits of lightning.

There's a soft tumbling sound from behind them, and when George opens his eyes to look, Harry's kicked over a hamper, spilling sheets and towels all around them.

Harry doesn't seem to have noticed, too focused on George's neck and stomach and cock, hard and aching between them.

Everything is getting slick between them from the heat of their sweat and the natural smoothing of precome dribbling against their bellies.

"I love you," says Harry, breathless and reverent. "So much."

George wraps his arms around Harry's shoulders and murmurs softly. "Love you, too. Even more."

Harry's breath hitches in his ear, quiet, muffled against George's jaw when he comes, slow and sweet and soft like Harry always is.

George moans and nips at Harry's ear, encouraging. Once Harry has finished gasping, he palms at George's hips greedily.

"Turn over," he urges, and George listens, everything too chilly without the warm press of Harry's body up against him.

For some reason, Harry really likes to do this, and finish George off this way. George isn't complaining when it feels so good.

He leans down on his elbows and knees, arching his back to give Harry a coy view.

"Pretty," Harry murmurs happily, using his thumbs to spread George open before he gives him a gentle lick with the flat of his tongue.

George groans and drops his head, forehead rested against the jumper he wore the first time Harry cooked him dinner.

It's soft and cozy against his face as Harry's lips and tongue work at him, one hand snaking between them to curl around George's cock, an insistent pressure at his stomach.

George moans and moves his hips, rubbing back against Harry's face and down into the loose grasp of his fist, needy and bursting.

Harry's muttering something against him but George can't tell what, and the movements of Harry's lips are words enough.

Finally, with a sharp cry, George comes hard over Harry's fingers, jumper bitten between his teeth.

There's a wet spot on the jumper when he lets go of it with his teeth. He looks at it with pride along with exhaustion.

Harry keeps hold of him while George catches his breath and then gently helps him turn over again. George keeps one forearm over his eyes like he's waking up from the dark.

"You okay?" Harry asks gently, touching fingertips to George's chin. He sounds a bit smug. "Didn't mean to overwhelm you."

George mutters some nonsense, then peeks out at Harry. "So okay."

"Good." Harry grins at him with his pink, wet mouth.

George snuggles down against the cushions beneath him. "Come down here, you."

Harry seems ready to do just that, before his attention is caught by the shirt near George's head. Slowly, horror dawns on his face as he notices the mess they've made of the clean laundry.

"Nooo," he groans. "You undid all the things we got done today!"

George smiles at him with all the innocence he can muster. "I got done today," he says proudly.

Harry groans and starts pulling come-covered laundry out from beneath George. He gives up after the jumper and just collapses with his head resting on George's belly. 

George, trying to be comforting, strokes Harry's hair out of his eyes. "I won't say it," he promises.

"Say what?"

"That we should have stayed in bed all day."

Harry frowns, and smacks George's arm with a pair of trousers, but George thinks it's all pretty worth it in the end.

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